


runners

by writingfromthevoid (luciferxrising)



Series: D&D backstories [2]
Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Backstory, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-05
Updated: 2017-08-05
Packaged: 2018-12-11 13:09:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11715045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luciferxrising/pseuds/writingfromthevoid
Summary: The backstory for my human, CG rogue, Rorik Runnfell.





	runners

 

Life is all good and well up until the age of eight. His father is the mayor of their small city in the backwoods, that mostly relies on the hunt, on foraging and woodcutting. Rorik is small and easily excitable, adventurous, never sitting still. It is this personality trait that may well save him when it happens.

            He returns from a trip in the woods, going deeper than he usually does, finding pretty flowers to put in a vase for his momma. The air is searing hot, hotter than usual in the harvesting season, and thick with fume, and this should warn him, but he is young and ignorant. He treks on. The city is burning. He stops.

            The city is still burning.

            His denial does not change this fact.

            _The city is still burning it is burning –_

There are tears in his eyes as he runs, first to the city, the only thought going through his mind _dad momma dad momma where are you please be safe_

            They are not safe. It is when he realises this, that he stops. Sobs. Wipes at his face with the bottom of his shirt.

            Runs.

            Runs in the opposite direction, into the woods. Into the woods, where it’s safe, his home more than the oak floors of his house, the house that is burning as he runs.

            He only breaks down after 15 minutes, which is impressive, really. There’s smoke in his lungs, tears in his eyes, and he falls onto his knees onto the pine needle carpet of the forest, coughing, sobbing, wheezing –

            He’s alone. Well and truly alone.

            It doesn’t occur to him others might have gotten out of the city alive. He’s young, and the flames burn behind his eyelids when he closes them.

 

He doesn’t realise he’s passed out until he wakes, needles digging into his back, his sides, eyes bleary with sleep. The moon is up high overhead, shimmering through the leafy cover.

            His dreams were filled with smoke. It takes him a second to realise why.

            He doesn’t cry anymore, but his legs shake as he pushes himself up on them.

            He walks again.

            It’s dark, and it’s scary, but he walks.

            The forest looks different at night. Shadows warp the surroundings, making the trees look gnarled, branches like claws curling around his form. The sky overhead is not much of a relief, leaves overlapping and casting out the light of the moon. Rorik stumbles, feet unsure on what used to be familiar ground, now deceitful and treacherous.

            He falls.

            Two arms wrap around him.

            He passes out.

 

This time, he wakes on a considerably softer surface. It’s a relief as any, and as he comes to, he lets out a soft, appreciative noise. It was a dream. It was all just a dream, he’s home, his town is alright, his parents are alive. He’s young, and he can dream.

            The illusion doesn’t last. A shadow falls over him, and his eyes open not on a dark haired, human woman, but an elf with long, fair hair and wide, green eyes that are filled with concern.

            He startles. Recoils. Arms wrap around himself protectively as a soft gasp slips from his mouth.

            _Don’t hurt me. Please. Don’t hurt me_.

            She doesn’t.

 

She heals him. Physically, cuts and scrapes disappearing from his arms, his legs. And mentally, as the memories from the burning town fade. He is young, easily pleased. She becomes his home.

            Soon, the village he knew is gone, burnt to ashes, a pile of dust swept away from his mind.

They have each other now. Rorik gains a mother he has lost. Ellir gains a son she never had.

 

Seasons change, years pass. Rorik learns to hunt, to shoot, bring in food. He learns to cook, brewing stew and broths over an open fire.

            He shoots his first wolf out of self-defence. The wolf attacks him out of the same motivation. He is young. He doesn’t know better.

            Ellir helps him skin it, when he brings it down. She doesn’t reprimand, or tut, or fuss. She understands.

            They keep the teeth as well, and when Rorik loses his baby teeth, she replaces the canines with those of a wolf. She reminds him that he is strong, that he has the heart of a wolf, too.

 

It doesn’t feel like it, when she disappears. His heart feels like it’s about to shatter into tiny, tiny pieces. Only fragments left.

            Only Rorik left.

            He’s on his own again.

            He packs a bag that night, crossbow hanging from his hip. Satchels of dried herbs tucked in his pockets. Wolf fur covering his head, his shoulders. He dips his fingers into the soot from the burnt out fire, and starts painting.

            He has the heart of a wolf. And now he will look like one, as well.


End file.
